


Onwards Full Speed

by Zozoa



Category: Digimon - All Media Types, Digimon Adventure
Genre: Aged-Up Character(s), Attempt at Humor, Friends to Lovers, M/M, Not Epilogue Compliant, Past Yamato/Sora, Roommates, Slice of Life
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-17
Updated: 2020-08-29
Packaged: 2021-03-06 02:55:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 16,445
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25956343
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Zozoa/pseuds/Zozoa
Summary: It’s not long into his cohabitation with Yamato when: a robot catches fire, they have a breakdown in their friendship and, to top it off, Kuwagamon appears yet again.Taichi shouldn’t be surprised, really.
Relationships: Ishida Yamato | Matt Ishida/Yagami Taichi | Tai Kamiya
Comments: 40
Kudos: 115





	1. Chapter 1

Yamato calls him two in the morning. It should find Taichi sleeping but luck wouldn't have it so. Instead he’s slaving over the computer, a ten-page essay on the significance of social media in international discourse pending for tomorrow first hour, when the ringtone saves him from slamming his head against the keyboard.

“You got a spare bedroom, right?” Yamato asks without preamble. Taichi grunts, and mumbles something that might resemble ‘yeah’ while squinting at the professor’s guidelines. There’s a mistake in the bibliography’s format; he feels like giving up. “Can I spend the night there? Sora and I broke up.”

His hand spams, knocks against the half-full energy drink to spill it over the table and onto the floor. Taichi blearily watches the stain grow on the Mimi-approved second-hand carpet. Thinks, _I’ll need to clean that_. Thinks, _Yamato sounds off_.

Thinks, once the lone bulb in his brain lights up, _what_.

“What?”

. . .

This is the extent of what Yamato tells him:

They’ve been busy, busy, busy since they started university. They’ve been before that, too, preparing their entrance for uni. They found themselves living with each other rather than together, crossing paths rather than walking the same. Sora’s had enough.

Yamato has—

Well.

Taichi is not sure what goes with Yamato. He shows up with a handbag and Gabumon at his side, clear eyed and clean shaved. No sadness, no anger, no anything except for the taut line of his shoulders. He looks at Taichi with intense detachment however the oxymoron while shrugging —shrugging!— as he just says, awfully calm, why yes, the Sora-Yamato union of a year and half just met its fatidic end.

Taichi’s kind of freaking out.

“Just like that?” he asks tentatively.

Yamato shrugs again. Gabumon burrows his head against Yamato’s hand in the silent reassuring way of theirs Taichi will never quite get (Agumon and him are all loud complaints, and loud praise, and loud joy and sadness, never ever quiet) and watches as Yamato smiles — smiles!— wanly at his digimon. Taichi sighs.

“Okay,” he says. Then, as Yamato looks at him, repeats: “Okay,” because he really doesn’t _know_ what else to say.

He’s had a total of two relationship, neither of which lasted half a year after petering out into oblivion, each side biding their goodbyes with a pat in the back. (Also a weeklong hookup he refuses to acknowledge that ended when his partner outed themselves a cult leader. Never again). There hadn’t been any pain, really, only the numb, dejected realization that he hadn’t cared as much as he thought he did, and thus there had been no leftover heartache to wedge through.

Yamato is different. Yamato cares. Yamato does any kind of relationship the same way he does his hair every morning: to last. Painfully slow to broach any change, while also an absolute pain in the ass when coming to terms, Yamato doesn’t take decisions lightly. Taichi remembers the day at the beginning of their last year in high school when Yamato and Sora announced they were going out. He congratulated them, of course. Said with a smile: _this was expected_ , while a part of him —the selfish, ugly part of him— whispered forlornly: _this is it, nothing’ll be the same_. Except not. It’d been a foolish thought. Yamato of course remained Yamato, the steady grounding (uber critical) presence next to him, and Sora, bless her heart, never minded having him hanging out with them.

Now, however, things are already changing and Yamato, aversion made manifest when it comes to any big variations in his life, remains calm.

It’s chilling. Taichi’s one shrug away from screaming at him to _react_.

Besides, there’re other things to worry about. The integrity of the group! The awkwardness of sharing friends! What if another world ending problem dropped on the Chosen Children just then?! Good. _God._

Taichi wishes Yamato would get all over his face. Crying, yelling, it wouldn’t matter. He knows emotional Yamato, has learnt to deal with him. Apathic Yamato on the other hand is weird and wrong and should not exist.

After an uncountable amount of time passes, in a bout of inspiration and desperation, Taichi throws an arm around Yamato’s shoulder. He grips him tight, closer, even though Yamato’s head snaps up to look at him. At least sudden apprehension suits him better.

“So you wanna roommate with me now?” Taichi ends up blurting, ignoring the way in which Yamato freezes under his touch. “I was about to search for one after Koushiro left to Kyoto anyway, and you need a place to stay, right? Besides, your uni isn’t that far from here either, so. We can settle things tomorrow with the landlord.”

Taichi tries to smile encouragedly, adds a playful shove of his shoulder against his. Two best friends sharing apartment, getting over worries while helping each other day to day is a tale as old as time. It sounds like a brilliant idea in Taichi’s mind. A 10/10 best friend move. Someone give him a trophy. But.

Uhm.

Yamato’s face does… a thing.

It kind of… collapses on itself? His brows furrow, lips thinning, eyes open wide like deer in headlights. His hand grips onto Gabumon’s fur, as if in a rupture between wanting to accept and refuse at the same time. Taichi can feel his own smile stiffen.

 _What the actual fuck_ , he thinks, lifting his arm from Yamato. This night only gets weirder. Or he’s missing a big social cue. It wasn’t _that_ bad of an idea, was it now? But the moment passes, and whatever has taken hold of Yamato dispels when he shallows.

He says, “Thanks.” Pauses, reconsiders while his expression turns constipated and then, very slowly, nods. “That’d be best, yeah.”

“Good! With that out of the way,” Taichi proclaims, standing up and away from the weirdness that’s been Yamato’s face, “let’s get food to celebrate. And beer so we drown the rest.”

Yamato finally— _finally!—_ arches one brow mockingly, punctuated by a condescending tiny purse of his lips. Taichi beams. This is familiar ground. He is king in familiar ground.

“At four in the morning?” Yamato drawls but, Taichi notices, he’s also standing up to head to the kitchen. “Don’t you have that essay you’ve been moaning about the whole week to finish too?”

“Who cares,” he scoffs. “I’m done with it. And I’m pretty sure you’re more important right now.”

“Sure you aren’t searching for excuses?” Yamato fires back. There’s no heat to it though and he’s even smiling —smiling!— so that’s good. They can do this. “So, food it is? Takeout?”

Agumon, who’s been dozing off since Yamato and Gabumon got here, startles awake at that. He falls from the couch with an impressive thud. His whine is long and childish while Gabumon shuffles towards him ready to help.

They stare.

“Yamato and Gabumon’re living with us now?” Agumon chirps in a daze a bit too late. “And can we ask for Thai takeout? Chinese smelled funny.”

Taichi laughs, and Yamato soon follows.

. . .

Yamato settles in easily.

Which is to say, there’s nothing much they need to adjust to, really.

There’s Yamato’s religious insistence on keeping the bathroom spotless, a treatment not even the kitchen gets—in fact, Taichi discovers, although Yamato knows his way around the stove he isn’t as enthusiastic when cleaning it. Gabumon sheds hair all over which… okay. Weird. Taichi’s _pretty_ sure the fur is _not_ an extension of him. Then Yamato finds the hard way Agumon leaves scales as often when sitting on the couch so they make even. And Yamato finds Taichi might have the worst temper if he’s ever to leave him without one of his energy bars after the morning jog, but once they get their first and last big argument it never comes up again.

Beyond that? They pin up their timetables on the fridge. They neatly divide a paper sheet in two and split the housework evenly —Yamato cooks, Taichi cleans after; Yamato does the weekly shopping, Taichi does the laundry. They set payments and talk money until they’re happy.

They take the microcosmos that was surviving on the Digital World and adapt it to their own every day lives.

Frighteningly familiar, in ways.

“This movie again?” Yamato nags from the other side of the couch. “Come on, change to something else.”

“Nah, it’s different,” Taichi says, making sure to move the remote away from Yamato’s sight. “This’s the third _Jurassic Realm_ movie. We watched the fourth the other day.”

“As if it matters, they’re all the same.”

“They are not,” Taichi pouts, kicking Yamato’s leg in his reach.

“Sure,” Yamato grumbles, kicking back. He watches as the first character on the screen gets swallowed by a tyrannosaurus, and groans. “Didn’t you have enough of giant monsters when we were eleven, anyway?”

“Hey! Dinos are always awesome, _especially_ when they’re trying to eat anyone but us.” Taichi gently pats Agumon on the head. “Right?”

“I like it,” Agumon says around a spoonful of yogurt. “I wish this ‘tee-rex’ were still around to meet them.”

“It’s kinda fun,” Gabumon peeps up shyly next to him.

Taichi grins triumphantly at Yamato, who scowls at not only being wholly outnumbered but also opposed by his own Gabumon.

“Whatever,” he says in a huff. “This weekend I’m going to a space tech exposition held by my uni. It’s a full day event.” There’s a heartbeat of an instant and then Yamato’s staring at him intently. “Want to come? There’s a section for children.”

“Ass,” Taichi sneers. “What’s in it? Don’t wanna end up like last time.” Last time being him bored out his skull in a two hour conference about space debris management he understood little of.

Yamato snorts. “No, it’s mostly demonstrations: showing off tech, models, even some space rovers. To attract new people and children, you know, the like.” He waves his hand, and adds, “I was going to tell you before but, ah, everything else happened.”

“Robots _do_ sound cool,” Taichi muses. He nudges Agumon, who’s been intently watching the velociraptors tear a whole man apart . “What do you say, big boy?”

(In the back of his mind, Taichi remembers Yamato saying: “we were busy; we weren’t spending enough time together, I guess,” and frowns.)

“Is there going to be a picnic?,” Agumon asks, to which Gabumon perks up at and pleads to Yamato, “Can we?”

Yamato of course can’t say no and that basically resolves it.

This is also when they set the stupid robot on fire.

It’s an accident!

Agumon’s the culprit.

Taichi can’t say he ever cared much about space—he’d been a firefighter boy more than an astronaut boy. But going out with Yamato who’s ready to spew amusing facts about whichever contraception does wonders to his attention span. And if they ever get into the USSR-USA space pissing contest, Taichi can share his own chuckle worthy historical facts about the Cold War. Agumon and Gabumon don’t understand much of it, but they’re still awed at the grandeur of the cosmos, wondering whether Digimon might be found there too (Yamato and he break into a sweat; no, no way, nuh-uh are they dealing with the idea of aliens and their alien digimon, thanks).

“If you ever go to Mars, say hi to our neighbors and try not to get gobbled up because they found you tasty all over,” Taichi prods at lunch.

“Don’t worry,” Yamato answers sickeningly sweet, “I’ll direct them to you as the pinnacle of human specimen to dissect if it comes to it.”

Taichi wants to make a comeback about the ‘pinnacle of human specimen’ part, he really does, but Agumon steals his sandwiches and in the ensuing fight all’s forgotten.

They end the day viewing a plastic replica of _Curiosity_. Agumon and Gabumon are outright thrilled at seeing the device. Taichi doesn’t understand why they’re so happy when their own species is littered with androids and sentient machines and whatnot, but whatever makes them smile. They crowd around the rover with the other kids that have come to the exposition, who now seem to have their attention divided between a cool robot and two cool monsters. Yamato and Taichi stand back, content and carefree and thinking what a good day this was.

They’re wrong.

What happens is thus, in slow motion:

There’s a shorter than average girl who’s been increasingly frustrated at not being able to see the rover because of the burly boys in front that won’t stop pestering her. Temper flared, she shoves herself against them, which then creates a chain reaction of kids tumbling against each other. There’s a spectacled boy ogling their digimon while holding a space themed bubble blower toy who trips when pushed and, while clumsily flapping arms around, thrusts the whole recipient of highly concentrated water mixed with soap up Agumon’s nose.

Almost after a decade together, this is when Taichi also learns that whenever Agumon sneezes he might also spit fire. Cool trivia fact to learn as a model of humankind’s achievements immolates.

“Oh, shit,” Taichi hisses as Yamato gasps next to him and around them children scream.

It’s their refined instincts, sharpened after countless battles and living in a strange world, that calls them into immediate action. Yamato ushers the shocked kids out with the help of their digimon while Taichi sprints towards the fire extinguisher tucked away in the corner of the room. In less than minute, in which the fire alarm system has started raining on them, they manage to evacuate everyone and put out the fire, leaving a quarter-scorched, foam-adorned _Curiosity_ model in front of them.

“I’m sorry, Taichi, I didn’t mean it!” Agumon trots to him.

“This is an absolute mess,” Yamato moans.

“Relax,” Taichi says, hugging Agumon in consolation, not feeling as confident as he sounds, “they probably have insurance anyway.”

“You better be right,” Yamato says evenly, soaked to the bones.

Thankfully for them, Taichi is right. Accidents happen, especially if children (or child-like Digimon) are involved, the dean tells them. It’s not like there’s much damage thanks to their speedy intervention; their insurance will cover the rest. And if the dean not so covertly hints that if they lent the university their digimon for the next expo in Digital development it will speed up the process of sweeping the whole accident under the rug, no harm done, Taichi and Yamato of course agree. How could they not help the advancement of academic research after all?

They exit the avenue an hour later with their heads hanging low, Agumon subdued with apologies long spilled out. Taichi is in a mind of keeping solemn at the tragedy, and in another mind of laughing at the absurdity of the situation although he manages to contain it. Yamato’s pissed enough as is, and poor Agumon would feel worse if he laughed in his face. Still, he has to hide a smirk behind his hand and Yamato notices.

“I’m _never_ bringing you anywhere anymore,” he mumbles sullenly.

(Yamato could have offered Sora, even before, even during, but didn’t. He even said he was going to invite Taichi before anything happened, and there’s nothing weird about it, is there; they’ve always been like that, haven’t they, way back, and now, and even in days to come if Taichi has his way.)

“Keep telling yourself that,” Taichi says.

. . .

Taichi meets with Sora for their bi-weekly football match viewing at their usual bar. Sora might have become traitor the day she decided she likes tennis better (his crush on her evaporated into thin air over the admission in middle school and never recovered, he remembers fondly), but she still holds a soft spot for her old sport. So, the both of them having their occasional evening off to obsess over some anticipated match (Japan vs. Argentina this week) has become a rather natural extension of that.

A bit awkward this time, though, since he hasn’t really gotten a chance to talk with her after taking Yamato in and all.

They go through the motions at first, deliberately ignoring the elephant in the room: order food, order drinks, go to their corner, “how was uni?”, “good, you?”, “got a failing grade on my essay”, then the match begins and they’re off in their world.

Japan scores ten minutes in and they whoop; Argentine is quick to recover with a goal of their own, though, and they boo. There’s a stalemate. They rage at a foul. They fill the gaps with commentary and scathing opinions: “Damn, Japan’s striker is missing them all”, “what did you expect against Argentina”, “we’re so losing this”.

When the halftime comes, the sudden lull in their conversation has the elephant glaring back at them. Everything turns from mildly awkward to supremely awkward.

Taichi drums on his glass, surreptitiously side-glancing Sora. She looks… okay, at least—not exactly down. Still, checking wouldn’t do harm. He thinks, though maybe he’s wrong. Yamato’s always proclaimed that he has the social graces of a chimpanzee. Taichi's become self-aware enough to sort of agree. He wonders how is one supposed to broach the subject that your female best friend has broken up with your male best friend who is now living with you.

He takes a long sip from his beer. A deep breath.

Courage it is.

“How are you doing?” he asks.

“Fine,” Sora says as quickly, probably expecting this. “And I mean it, sad as it is to say that.”

Taichi nods, a bit put out by the fast answer. Still, time to press on: “Do you want to talk or…?”

Sora’s soft chuckles isn’t what he’s expecting, but she isn’t looking hurt or annoyed so he can’t be in the wrong path. “You’ve never been good at this kind of thing.”

“What can I say?” he answers, shrugging. “I’m an action-man. You know this.”

She ducks her head, whispering a fond ‘true’. There’s a pause where she takes a sip of her own, eyes firmly set on the TV. Taichi can still see the way her jaw clenches and unclenches at intervals, though, and understands her enough to know she’s searching for all the right words. He leans back into his seat, watching, ready to listen to whatever she has to say.

“I just realized,” Sora breathes out eventually. Her shoulders tense, as if she were about combust if she doesn’t let the words out, “that maybe our relationship was more defined for what we were than what we did with it. That maybe we came together because it was easier than not since there were all these… expectations.” She flaps her hand, still refusing to look at him. “That since we were young, and friends, and everyone else was pairing up, you included, we’d follow right after.”

 _It was expected_ , Taichi remembers proclaiming, and winces.

“Ah.” He gulps. “Sorry.”

“Don’t go there.” She smacks his side, annoyed, finally sending him a familiar glare. “It was still our choice. And I did like him, and I know Yamato liked me, so there was ground for something there. It’s just… Well.”

“It wasn’t enough,” he finishes, thinking back on his own failed relationships.

Sora nods, wistful. “I bear the crest. I’d know.” She sloshes her drink around, her eyes staring beyond and far away. “Is he fine?” she asks.

“Yeah,” Taichi says, rolling his eyes. “Well enough to yell at me about how to fold socks.”

This draws an amused snicker out of her. “So the two of you are well, I take it. Good,” she states, turning to him. The slant of her mouth is curved upwards, but it’s the eyes that bore into him that makes Taichi freeze. They’re nostalgic, apprehensive and knowing in equal parts, searching for something in him, in his expression, that Taichi doesn’t know can understand. It’s gone as quickly, though. She looks down to her hands and repeats, quietly, “Good.”

With a deep exhale, Sora plops herself against his side, resting heavy and tired on him. It takes a second for him to wrap an arm around, squishing her tight while she nestles herself in the half-embrace, asking for permission to be held if only for a moment, and Taichi’s glad to do just that. She already looks better, however, if the way her body heaves in respite and she cranes her neck with pleasure once she detaches herself off of him is anything to go by. She beams gratefully, and Taichi smiles back.

“Hey, it’s starting again,” Sora says, pointing at the match. She leans in all conspirational, lips twisted in light mischief. “Bet you Argentina wins.”

Taichi tsks and pushes her back. “Sure, okay, I may be impulsive but sure as hell I’m not stupid enough to take that bet.” He sniffs imperiously. “When it comes to football at least.”

Sora laughs at that, and it’s the nicest sound Taichi hears the whole week.

He comes back home late. Dinner hour has come and gone. Taichi enters their apartment quietly to find Yamato on the couch dogpiled by sleeping Gabumon and Agumon while watching some documentary about the NASA. Taichi smiles. They look downright domestic.

“Hey,” he greets after padding towards them.

“Hey,” Yamato answers back, attention shifting to him. “How was it?”

“Fine,” Taichi simply answers, propping against the couch’s back. He watches as Yamato pulls a face, pressing his lips thin into a line with an intense frown darkening his face. Taichi knows what Yamato’s actually asking about yet too afraid to voice. He savors the moment, the way in which Yamato’s clearly riling himself up by the ticking second before taking pity on him. “She also asked about you. Told her you went off the deep end: drugs, alcohol, all of it. How much of a tragic character you’ve become. Saddening, really.” Yamato twists around to punch him in the arm, quite the feat considering he does so without stirring their digimon, while spitting an angry ‘asshole’ through clenched teeth. “Fine, sorry. Sorry,” Taichi snickers, deflecting the second blow. “She’s good. You know her, strong-willed like always. She’ll recover. Here, from Sora.”

He hands over the small package Sora gave him. Yamato takes it with an amount of reticence before holding onto it firmly.

“What’s it?” he asks even though he’s already opening it.

“Dunno,” Taichi answers while leaning in to get a better look. “She asked me to give it to you.”

What they find is an assortment of sweets, the kind they’d buy when hanging out after school. Taichi notices those nasty licorices Yamato loves, the small toffees and jellybeans they’d divide among the three, Sora’s favorite brand of gum and a handful of fizzy sweets Taichi liked yet hasn’t had in awhile. He turns to Yamato only to witness the plethora of Big Yamato Emotions moment phasing though his face in a matter of seconds before it settles in one of those gentle smiles (the kind Taichi can never not look at) and Taichi feels his body give out in relief. Yamato pops one of the toffees into his mouth, directs the naked sentiment of gratefulness towards him, and Taichi the fool of him does nothing but return it.

There’s been a moment where Taichi’s worried—about how Yamato and Sora would deal, how their breakup would affect them and then the group. He feels rather stupid now. There was nothing to worry about. Sora and Yamato would be fine. It may take some time before they find their footing around each other again but they will; they’ve been friends for longer than not, years of relying on the other with their lives on the line, and even if they weren’t _in_ love, they still loved each other.

That should— _will_ be enough.

“What are you smiling for?” Yamato squints at him, mouth full of licorice.

“Nothing much,” Taichi answers. He nods at the sweets, fingers already crawling around Yamato towards the box. “Those look tasty. Gimme one? Pretty please?”

Yamato slaps his hand away. “ _Don’t_. They’re mine.”

“Oh, c’mon, I’m hungry,” he pouts, closing the gap between them to attack with the full force of his pleading eyes. “Don’t be stinky.”

“Dinner leftovers in the fridge, moron,” Yamato declares, swatting him away from his space. “I made yakitori.”

Oh, neat. His favorite.

“You’re the best,” Taichi proclaims heading out to the kitchen.

“Hey, Taichi,” Yamato calls. Taichi turns to Yamato in all his stormy glory—the slightest of blushes dusting his cheeks, opening his mouth only to click it shut with an indignant huff. Probably trying to say something deep and gracious and thankful without wanting to sound cheesy but failing miserably. Taichi’s smirk widens as Yamato glares. “Here.”

He throws one of the fizzys in a beautiful arch into the air. Taichi follows the sweet, stepping to his side and catches it mid-air with the mouth. It tastes of too much sugar and apple fruit (and of afternoons spent with his friends in companionship that would last through anything). Grinning, he wiggles his eyebrows at Yamato, who chuckles and settles back on the couch, ordering to come back soon because a Bames Jond movie is airing next.

Taichi hums to himself.

Fine, indeed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> An attempt was made when writing this... everything and the half-assed humor. Any errors are from truly yours. 
> 
> I'm notorious for being frustratingly inconsistent so don't expect next chapter soon. Hope you enjoyed it!


	2. Chapter 2

Years back, his mom got hooked with those American dramas where Christmas is the essence of family-time, gratefulness and the holyday spirit. The consequence to that is Yuuko Yagami insisting on spending every subsequent Christmas night together when they’re able. Taichi never particularly minded the fact —no point in refusing a good dinner and a nice night. But this year Yamato, he knows, doesn’t have much to do around those days. His father is off in Kyushu recording who-knows-what program until New Year and his friends —the non-Digimon-related brand of friends— have already set up dates with their girlfriends or boyfriends or whatever.

So, in a bout of solidarity, he invites Yamato to pass Christmas with his family instead.

“C’mon. It’ll be nice,” Taichi cajoles. “There’ll be decent food and let’s see if we can meet with anyone back in Odaiba.”

“You just said it’s a Yagami thing,” Yamato grumbles while plucking at his guitar. “Don’t you think I’ll be out of place there.”

Taichi scoffs, as if the both of them haven’t grown up on each other’s house as much as their own. His mom absolutely loves Yamato to boot. Once, she cooed how awkward yet polite he was and Taichi had to hold his laughter. Mom clearly never saw Yamato in his natural habitat, outside of the eyes of strangers and in the fold of the people he cares about, all gloriously temperamental.

Besides, Taichi notices smugly, Yamato isn’t saying ‘no’.

“Bring Takeru for the dinner, too, if you want,” he pushes airily. “That’ll even make Hikari happy.”

Yamato’s glare is positively nasty. They both know Taichi just brought out the heavy artillery into the talk. Takeru, Gabumon and his music are the three topics Taichi can reliably trust to convince Yamato to do his binding, a fact Yamato is wholly aware of yet can do little about. It’s one of the peaks of having known each other for so long, facilitated by Yamato making himself an open book once you come to understand his ways.

Bottom line is, he says yes.

His mother is ecstatic over the phone. The more the better is her motto and Yamato might not be a second-son but it’s something close enough. Yamato offers to bring dessert to not appear empty handed and Taichi’s thanking whichever gods for small mercies. (Yuuko Yagami was a decent cook but terrible at pastries. Too much sugar by half; the cavities Hikari and he had to grow up with are testament.)

That’s the starting point, Taichi’ll realize later—them showing up in his childhood home with an armful of cake.

It’s innocuous enough at the beginning. They get there a day earlier, bags in hand while Agumon and Gabumon scamper around the house with Tailmon. They spend the day wandering around the neighborhood, greeting old acquaintances or exploring new avenues. Night come they laze around in Taichi’s room, playing videogames from their teen days until either of them gets frustrated enough at losing to call it quits. Next day, Takeru shows up and Hikari ropes them all into awful tabletop game after another at the pretense of sibling bonding, knowing full well she’s queen at them and none of the three boys stand a chance.

Nevertheless, Taichi’s content, watching Yamato laugh at whatever story Takeru is telling. He’s got the best ideas sometimes (except when he does not).

By the time evening rolls around, though, things start getting heated.

It’s also around this time when Susumu Yagami gets home from work for dinner and mom decides to bring out the wine.

“Now that I think,” his mom muses melancholic, seizing the bottle as they sit around the table, “this year you two are finally of age to drink.”

“I don’t think Taichi should be allowed anywhere near alcohol, mom,” Hikari snickers, hiding her mouth behind the napkin.

Yuuko arches a brow. “How so?”

“He’s an awful drunk,” Yamato answers without missing a beat. “Always gets high quick and slobbers all over those around him.”

His mom clicks her tongue. “I’ll pretend you just haven’t implied you got into drinking before becoming of age.”

The speed at which Yamato pales is staggering, lowering himself on the chair in shame. Taichi mouths at him ‘deserved’ across the table, which nets him a kick to the shin in retaliation. His father laughs.

“Let them be, Yuuko,” he says, stealing away half the tempura. “At least, they’re getting in trouble together. They’ll have each other’s back.”

“I don’t know,” Takeru pipes up. “Half the trouble’s exactly because of that.”

“True,” his mom concedes, drowning her glass of wine. “The times I’ve seen Taichi storming into his bedroom over some fight with Yamato.”

“Probably because he acts before thinking while Yamato yells him to think before acting.”

Taichi huffs, shoving a whole unagi into his mouth. “Is there something going on today for everyone to be against me?”

“Don’t worry, Taichi,” Takeru says in his amiable yet conspirational way. “My brother’s isn’t free of fault either. The way he pushes and demands for things to be at his pace and then throws a tantrum about it is something we all lived through, right? ”

Taichi sniggers and Yamato frowns, put out.

“I don’t—”

“You do,” the three of them say at unison.

They burst laughing at that. Even their parents seem amused, but Taichi watches as Yamato’s scowl remains. He pokes at his rice with his chopsticks, drags it around the bowl as his mouth sets in a fine pensive line. He doesn’t look angry, Taichi doesn’t think so. There’s something in the slant of his eyes however that makes him look annoyed, not at them, perhaps, but at something else.

His father’s laughter, loud and brazen, brings Taichi back to their table. His mother’s giggling too, hand comfortable on her husband’s shoulder. They both look flushed. Taichi eyes their glasses, now half-empty. The wine bottle’s fully empty next to them, and mom’s brought out a second one. Besides him, he senses Hikari wincing.

They’ve forgotten.

Taichi isn’t the only one in the family who’s an easy drunk.

“To be fair, Taichi’s not the only one who can be difficult,” his mom says suddenly, grabbing onto his father’s hand. “Dear, remember the day Hikari threw all her plushies down the window because the horrid haircut you gave her when she was four?”

It’s even worse. Their parents are the worst blabbermouths the moment alcohol is served.

“What.” Hikari straightens up, suddenly the focus.

Ah. All bark and no bite, Taichi snorts. He has no room to laugh though since he knows exactly what’s coming next. At least Hikari’s going down with him if there’s any bright side to the situation.

It gets increasingly awkward from there on. For them, anyway. Takeru and Yamato seem to be lapping it all up the moment they realize they can subtract an innumerable amount of better forgotten anecdotes. They start with the attic disaster in their grandmother’s house story, followed by the day Hikari brought a possum as a pet and top it off with the re-tale of the day eight years old Taichi and five years old Hikari decided to cook a cake. Spoilers: the kitchen caught fire.

Present day Taichi is just glad he got all the food for distraction.

It’s somewhere around the end of the third bottle of wine and the eleventh memory, after they all have almost licked their dishes clean, when Hikari suddenly announces she’s going to help Takeru go back home even though Takeru has said little of wanting to leave just yet.

“This late?” Susumu mumbles, nose pinched. “Alone?”

“But dad,” Hikari tuts, “letting Takeru go alone in the middle of the night is no good, isn’t it? You’ve always said it’s the gentlemanly thing to help a guest home at night.”

Dad seems awestruck at this, the alcohol clearly not helping. “I-I guess I did.”

“Good,” Hikari proclaims, and then practically drags Takeru out, barely letting him say goodbye and grab his jacket.

“Smart move,” Yamato whispers to Taichi.

“She’s always been the smarter one,” he laments.

Mom giggles, a sway in her movements, and nudges him to stand up. “Help me cleaning.”

Yamato’s forbidden from lifting a finger (“Guest should never work,” Yuuko states rather appalled at the idea) and is instead relegated to amusing his dad. From the kitchen, Taichi can hear Yamato boast about his vast knowledge of music bands from the 70’s. His father is absolutely taken. Taichi smiles.

“Ah! I forgot,” Susumu abruptly exclaims mid-conversation about J-Rock. He slams his glass down on the table in mock indignation. “I should’ve used the occasion to have a talk with Takeru.”

“A talk?” Yamato asks, taken aback.

“Susumu’s gotten in his head the rather senseless idea he should have a ‘talk’ with the boy,” his mom answers, dismissingly, “to make sure he takes care of his baby-girl or some such.”

“Really?” Taichi says, disbelieving. “Takeru’s who has to be cautious of Hikari.”

“Just in case,” his dad mumbles darkly, while mom shakes her head incredulous.

Yamato looks almost offended. “Takeru’d never—"

“Oh, we know. The boy’s a dear, but you see, a parent’s duty is to look after his children,” Susumo says. He turns to Yamato, almost sobered up, and adds, “So I guess I’ll ask you.”

Yamato narrows his eyes, puzzled. “To… treat Hikari well?”

“Well, that’d be good too, of course,” Yuuko titters, amusement clear in her voice. “But I think he means Taichi.”

Taichi reels, dropping a plate into the sink. “What!”

“We know our son can be a bit much at times—”

“He took that from you, dear.”

“So, please, do keep looking after him for our peace of mind.”

Taichi can feel himself blush —at the embarrassment, at the indignation, at the sudden fear of not wanting to look at Yamato— and can see Yamato surprised at the ask, his ears turning red. Taichi coughs loudly into the room, making his presence known. He glares at his parents, who in their haze look at him perplexed, and Taichi growls.

“What in hell are you—”

“Of course, sir,” Yamato speaks over him, tone even. His own gaze is steady, and serious, and doesn’t falter when turning to him. Taichi holds his breath. “That goes without asking.”

Later, after their digimon fall asleep in the living room with their stomachs full and his parents bid them goodnight, they head towards Taichi’s bedroom to call it a day. It’s only once they close the door of his room when Taichi allows himself to groan.

“Well, that was absolutely embarrassing,” he grumbles, discarding his clothes and putting on the sweatpants. “Let’s never do this again.”

“I don’t know,” Yamato mocks, unfolding his neatly tucked sleepwear. “I liked when your mom told us about the time you locked yourself in the washing machine.”

Taichi throws a dirty sock to his face.

“Mind if I come next year too?” Yamato continues, unfazed at the attack. “I’ll bring sangria from my grandparents in France.”

“Whatever,” Taichi snaps, “but no alcohol whatsoever.”

They prepare for bed. Taichi gets the upper bunk while Yamato’s offered the lower one. His childhood bed might be a bit too small for them but they manage, and Taichi settles in fine. He watches as Yamato heads to switch off the lights, his bare back wide and smooth and an easy view from his vintage position. But then Yamato stills, standing on the other side of the room while looking down on the floor.

Taichi frowns at the way Yamato purses his lips.

“What?” he asks. At Yamato’s silence, repeats, “C’mon, what is it?”

Yamato sighs, shoulders dropping, and asks, “Do I demand a lot of you?”

Taichi stares, eyebrows knitting together. “I might have gotten better at it, but I still can’t quite read your mind,” he says. “Gimme another decade.”

“Look, I— Ugh. Okay.” Yamato sulks. He crosses his arms, then uncrosses them. He looks at anywhere except the bed before he grounds his teeth and glares at him. “When Takeru and Hikari and you were complaining about how I, I quote, ‘push and demand for everyone to be at my pace’, how true is that?”

Taichi sits straight on the bed, peering down. “That’s what annoyed you back there!” he exclaims, remembering Yamato’s downturn expression. “You worry about the most ridiculous things, honestly.”

Yamato hisses. “Taichi…”

“Okay, fine, fine! Yes, you do,” he says, throwing hands up in the air. “You’re always after my case, criticizing and pointing _all_ the ways any choice I make can go wrong.” Taichi sees the way in which Yamato’s jaws clicks, how his gaze lowers in the self-deprecating way he hasn’t spotted in a long time, and quickly adds, “But, let’s be honest, and it really pains to be honest here you should know, my parents are right. I _can_ be a bit, uhm…”

“Hotheaded?” Yamato provides after a moment, the smallest of smiles peeking out.

“Sure, that,” Taichi concedes, waving a hand. “So you telling me off _sometimes—_ and I say _sometimes_ —helps. And, well, despite all the huffing and puffing you’re the first one to stand by me so it, you know, kind of evens out.”

This time, Yamato’s silence is contemplative. Even in the dimness of his room Taichi can see the procession of acceptance trailing across Yamato’s face with ease, the small tug of smile, the way his body relaxes. He himself feels his body giving out under the sight.

“…You can _be_ a handful,” Yamato trails off finally.

“See? We’re better off like this,” Taichi asserts, beaming down on him. “And look, if we still managed to become friends even after you tried to kill me because a tree told you—”

“You promised to never bring that up again.”

“—then I say we can last through anything.”

Taichi grins down at him, thinking he’ll meet the usual Yamato glare for the shot.

He does not.

Instead, he’s met with Yamato’s face smoothing out in clarity. It might have been a breakthrough he’s come to, or what Taichi just said might have clicked something into place in Yamato. Whatever the case, something for sure takes over him.

There’s a shift as he nods resolutely; Taichi notices in the straightening of his stance, in the way he rolls his shoulders. Expectantly, he watches Yamato turn back to him, wetting his lips, hands fisted at his sides and his whole body leans forward, ready for an attack, a battle, an unavoidable change. The air between them turns heavy, hot—what was relaxed a moment ago becomes charged, rousing, and suddenly Taichi feels like there is no distance at all between them, even though that’s ludicrous because there’s a whole room of space. Next, the hairs on the base of his nape stand up when Yamato says, voice barely above a whisper thick with fervor and yearning:

“Anything, uh.”

. . .

What Yamato hasn’t told Taichi is, his break up with Sora was driven mainly by their inertia, yes, but in the fringes of their discussion Taichi’s name came up.

This is how the memory plays, more or less:

Sora stands against the doorframe when she says, voice grave and body hunched: “We can’t continue like this.”

Yamato’s first impulse is to deny. The second, to fight. But the fact that he knows what she’s talking about even without having to ask is proof enough that a part of him has known this was coming, and so he keeps quiet. Above all, the silence’s the damming evidence that condemns their relationship.

“I don’t think either of us are _there_ ,” Sora continues when the stillness hangs leaden over them. “We aren’t even trying, I don’t think, and since we began living together it’s become all the more obvious, hasn’t it?”

The heavy lump in his throat drops to his stomach, a rock dragging him down. He croaks, “I know.”

“We barely spend time together,” she goes on, knuckles turned white gripping the counter. “When was the last time we’d an actual full, proper conversation about ourselves?”

“We haven’t gone out on a date in a long time either, have we?” Yamato remarks dispassionately, and Sora breathes a humorless chuckle.

“Meanwhile you spend so much of your time with Taichi, doing all kind of stuff—"

“I don’t see how that matters,” Yamato retorts, too quickly and too passionately.

Sora’s gaze is even, her intonation monotone. “Don’t you?”

Yamato bites down on his tongue, remembering that in the last week the most time he’s spent with Sora had been over dinner. In the last week, too, he’s gone out with Taichi twice to a hangout for no other particular reason than they could. What’s worse, it hasn’t been the first time. Even worse still, this is in fact their routine.

Yamato’s a child of divorce—he knows how that looks like.

“Maybe it’s time to end this,” Sora whispers in the growing darkness of their kitchen.

“I’m sorry,” is all Yamato can say. Anything else would be but a destructive lie or, worse, a meaningless platitude.

Sora assures him they don’t need to deal with their apartment at the moment, that they can talk it in the morning. But Yamato decides it’s for the better if the cut their losses (no point in extending what’s doomed) and it’s no soon after, when he closes himself in the studio, that he realizes he’s already dialing Taichi’s number. With Sora still in the next room, the shame is all-encompassing. It shouldn’t be, though; nothing strange about asking help from a friend after all (if he repeats this enough times he might believe it), but the indignity remains. It almost makes him weak in the knees.

Even so.

He presses call.

Later, Yamato’s off to Taichi’s. There, Taichi says _be my roommate_. And Yamato feels like he’s seventeen again after Taichi’s announced that the cute girl that was his lab partner had confessed and he’d accepted. Yamato’d thought morosely: _this will change everything_. Except not. It’d been a foolish thought. Taichi of course remained Taichi, the wild sweeping (uber infuriating) presence next to him and whenever Yamato’d find him with his new girlfriend, Taichi would always, always turn to him anyway.

Now older and wiser, Yamato understands the difference between refusing the clefts in a relationship to let themselves grow (Takeru now grown, now independent, yet so very close still), and the sheer unwillingness to let anyone or anything from getting in the space in-between, maybe not even themselves.

It’s funny, Yamato will think darkly in the first night of sharing apartment with Taichi, how good they’ve been at being willfully obtuse.

He’ll think, in their not-date at the expo where they bat back and forth banter that borderlines into flirting, how good they’ve become at it—at pretending they could carry on like that forever.

And now that he sees—Yamato’ll stare at Taichi’s silly grin, at his lips, the ‘anything’ turned ‘forever’ in his head; yet he’ll do nothing but wish, hope, dare himself to cross all the lines, to release all the carefully pilled skeletons in the wardrobe—he can’t unsee.

. . .

The conversation follows him through the holidays to their apartment. It follows him even after, as weeks pass and they return to the routines. He lays in bed and thinks about the way in which Yamato looked back then—unyielding and wanting all together before shrugging it off and going to bed, leaving Taichi hanging at the edge as the vision chases him into his dream and then into his daydreams.

Taichi could have pretended that instance was nothing except a moment of imbalance from Yamato’s part, but that would require to ignore the other moments that come after. They’re small, maybe unclear at times—Yamato’s eyes following his figure, keen, as he leaves the shower, commenting they need to buy shampoo— and too evident to overlook other times—Yamato sitting too close to him, not once, not twice, but every time, their arms bruising and thigs touching (not like Taichi tries to dislodge himself either, though, he has to admit).

Sometimes, when Taichi feels brave and bothered at the uncertainty, he’ll ask: “What is it?”

To which Yamato’ll pause, mull over whatever haunts him, and ultimately answer: “Nevermind,”

This is a level 7 in the Something Bothers Yamato Scale, just between the ‘it’s nothing’, meaning he can still deal with it, and a punch to the guts, signaling something’s in the verge of going tits up. Taichi doesn’t fancy getting punched, so he tries not to pry too much other than the occasional check. And yet. He feels his muscles tense and his breath hitch whenever he asks, expecting against expectation that this will be the _definitive_.

Taichi isn’t stupid—reckless and rash, sure, even has a hard time deciphering how other feels unless told upfront, but he sees the signs and wonders. Mostly, he wonders whether he’s imagining things. A mind with too much free time and a close, admittedly handsome friend leaving in the same space might do that. Fewtimes, he wonders why he isn’t more deterred at the thought.

Then months lapse, and Yamato continues doing his weird dance of will-he-won’t-he while Taichi’s patience runs thin.

It’s honestly a bit infuriating. And way too unnerving.

That’s when The Incident happens. It’s also when everything comes to head.

It starts simple enough. They go to a movie screening— _Bloodsuckers_ — and end up huddled together at the back of the theater, furiously whispering to each other about the plot twists. They get scolded four times throughout it but all Taichi can focus on is the salty popcorns, a more interesting story than he thought and Yamato’s breath on his ear.

When the movie ends, the argument continues because of course there’s a cliffhanger ending and of course they differ in the resolution.

“I told that’s not how it works,” Yamatu says heatedly, shoving their home’s keys into the keyhole. The door opens. “They didn’t go back together; the whole movie was about letting go and learning how to live on their own. The movie wouldn’t go against its own themes.”

“But the title says it all,” Taichi fires back. “That’s the theme. Showing off siblings that basically drag each other down to Hell, which they keep doing even when they say they won’t.”

Yamato stares down. “They don’t.”

“They do,” Taichi grounds out, staring back. 

Yamato hisses, closing in on him, barring any escape route, and suddenly Taichi’s very aware that Yamato Ishida is crossing into personal space and seems like he doesn’t want to stop. There’s a moment where his mind panics, followed by an inner voice that sounds strangely like Agumon demanding why should he, and he discovers there’s no reason to be frightened, really.

So when Yamato leans in, close enough for Taihchi to count the pale freckles on Yamato’s cheeks, Taichi waits. He looks on, expecting, as Yamato takes a gulp of air, raises a hand to bruise fingers over his arm’s skin, a moment of hesitation where he observes how Taichi reacts only to find nothing, and then there’s a fire between them, and he steps forward, and—

In the distance, a car’s alarm goes off.

It’s an instantaneous wake-up call, a dream fading into a harsh reality.

Yamato parts with a jolt, straightens up rigid as his face flushes a violent red that engulfs all visible skin. He opens his mouth before closing, not a sound coming out of it, his expression contorting into a mix of pain and shame and want. He avoids his gaze, lowering his face away from Taichi’s. Hastily and without a word, Yamato spins around and into the darkness of their apartment, out of his sight. Inside, a door slams close.

Taichi gapes, bolted to the place.

It’s a bit of a slow reaction after that.

What transpired catches up to him by pieces: first, there’s disbelief, his brain shuts down as he remains at the entrance of their apartment like a mindless baboon. Second comes confusion. Taichi closes his eyes and bits down on his tongue in a silent attempt to make himself _think,_ fails only to try again. And then, at last, anger floods him, providing him with the tremendous urge to punch someone, namely an infuriating blond who’s proving himself to be an _idiot_. Still, he contains the impulse. He’s an adult man now. He’d have to pay whatever he may break and he’s broke after paying this month’s rent. In its place, he grounds his teeth in a snarl and glowers from whence Yamato left—no, _fled._

Thinks, _time to do something_. Thinks, _call Sora._

Thinks, once the lone bulb that hasn’t burnt lights up, _that’s a damn awful idea._

That would be in bad taste, wouldn’t it? It’s probably written somewhere out there in one of those society rules he never quite bothered to learn to never go for the ex for relationship advice. It might be doable, but certainly not recommendable. And Sora might have a patience of saint dealing with them, might even humor him, but he’s not about to make her go through that.

So.

That leaves him with the other lone option.

. . .

The War Council is called forth in a Wednesday afternoon when the subject, Yamato Ishida, is off in a meeting with his tutor over some project. Its participants are the Digimon Gabumon and Agumon, and the human Taichi Yagami. The topic: confirming the root of the subject’s erratic behavior and strategizing a battle plan accordingly. The tools: dango from the shop around the corner to bribe Gabumon and placate Agumon.

Chances of success: pending.

“I need to know,” Taichi begins, having everyone gathered around the coffee table, “if Yamato’s told you anything about me.”

Gabumon shakes his head. “No.”

Well, then. That was quick. Taichi clicks his tongue.

“Are you sure?” he asks again, sliding more dango across towards the digimon.

“Uhm, it’s the usual?” Gabumon stutters, timidly munching on the sweet. “He complains about how you frustrate him sometimes, but that’s… normal.”

Taichi nods, interlacing his finger. “Good, that’s good,” he mollifies. “But is there any difference in the way he complains about me lately, the last few months?”

Gabumon halts, half-dango encased between pointy teeth. He ponders on that, fixing the fur on his head. “I guess… He’s being muttering about you more? But he doesn’t look angry, I think.”

“Ah,” Agumon speaks up, waving a claw. “Taichi does that too!”

“Agumon!” Taichi shouts, aghast. Betrayed by his own digimon! “Have a dango and let Gabumon talk.”

“Well, it’s like sometimes he’ll pace around the room, talking to himself, and he’ll sound frustrated.” Grabumon bites on his lower lip, clearly worried. Taichi nods along, handing another sweet in encouragement. “But then Yamato will look… sad. And I’ll ask him about it, but he refuses to tell, and then he goes back to being like always.”

Taichi feels his ears buzz. “Oh.”

Gabumon frowns, scratching the side of his head. “Then… Is that bad?”

Taichi stares, confused. “Bad?”

“It’s just, uhm, whenever you two got like this before,” the digimon says, avoiding looking at him in the eye, “nothing good followed. Usually fighting. The nasty kind.”

Taichi gawks. Next, he jerks upright, effusively shaking his head.

“No! No, I…” Taichi starts to quickly shut his mouth. His nose scrunches, trying to think the words needed to pacify. He wets his lips, holding his gaze before saying, in a clipped short of way, “I don’t think it’s bad. Just. Different. It’s something that we’ll have to confront, I guess, and might change things in places. Although not in a bad way. I think.”

Gabumon dips his head, understanding reflected in his big brown eyes. “Too different or do you still remain the same at the end?”

Now, that’s a question, Tachi laments. If he’s right, if Yamato’s advancements haven’t been hallucinations wrought by his imagination, they’d be bound to go through shifts in their relationship. Some easy to guess—new rules, more intimacy, coming to know the other in different forms— but beyond that, when it comes to the heart where everything they are together is erected, he couldn’t imagine much adjusting. Because, deep down, he doesn’t think he could be any other way with Yamato than the way he was now. Nor did he want to, truth be told. Despite the fights and the constant antagonization, there was stability at the end of it, of knowing that Yamato would stand with him even if he had to oppose him.

They long bared their worst and their best to each other, and that could never be taken from them.

“The same, I hope,” he manages to utter at last.

“Then what’s the problem? That sounds fine, right?” Agumon says, walking over to him and placing his big lizard head on his thighs. Taichi scratches his nape with a smile. “Like when we evolve, right? We become bigger and stronger and better but still the same.”

Taichi stares. All he can muster is an intelligent, “Uh.”

“Or when we become Omegamon!” Gabumon proclaims with a smile. “Agumon and I smush into one,”—he clasps his hands together as example—"so we’re different and joined, but you and Yamato think we’re still us, don’t you?”

“Uhhh.”

Okay. That’s not—

Taichi pinches his nose. That’s probably not how it works. He doesn’t think so anyway. The whole becoming one part most likely denotes different to humans and he doesn’t think their digimon meant _sex_ with it (or maybe they did? Taichi isn’t sure how the fusion thing actually works and honestly doesn’t feel he wants know anymore). And, like. Okay. Fine. Sex with Yamato doesn’t sound half-bad. The idiot has some nice callused fingers and a _very_ slender throat and as a singer the _sounds_ he could make and, wow, fuck, his mind’s going into places now. But! Not the point! (Yet.)

First, they’d need to get their relationship to _that_ stage, which requires _dealing_ with everything else before that. And also, they’d have to walk through the process of adjusting to reach that point, but as long as they were willing, and put effort into it, Taichi doesn’t think it could go _that_ wrong. Besides! Even if they failed, even when their relationship took a different form, they’d still stand beside the other because the core their relationship was forged on was of the stuff that _lasts_ , which meant that—

Oh.

Their digimon weren’t actually that…far off?

And he’s just repeating himself at this point.

Shit.

At least that clears everything now.

When did Agumon and Gabumon become philosophers anyway?

“Taichi?” Agumon calls to him, and realizes he’s zoned out on them for too long.

He clears his throat and stands up, mind made up.

“You know what,” Taichi says in his leader voice. “You’re too right. The Council’s adjourned.” He squares off his chest, feels the anxiety leave him. The smile comes easy; there’s a path laid out before him and what’s the point in waiting longer? “It’s time to grab the bull by the horns. Whatever happens, happens. But we _are_ dealing with this.”

Agumon claps, then jumps high enough to high five him while cheering him on to do his best. Gabumon, on the other hand, peers at him.

“Yamato and you’re going to fight, aren’t you?” he mumbles, nibbling on the last dango.

Taichi snorts, petting Gabumon softly. “When do we not?”

. . .

Taichi ambushes Yamato that same night.

Well—

Not ambush, maybe. He merely pulls out a chair to wait in front of the door. It’s an incredible feat for him if he’s to say so himself. Staying still to wait isn’t something that comes naturally; the constant nervous tick of his leg barely half hour into sitting is poof. But he succeeds. Even when the outside light bleeds out into darkness, he wills his body to obey. Even when he remembers the documentary on the trials of cultural differences he wanted to watch will air soon, he remains seated. (Except for the two times he goes to the fridge to grab something to bite. But! A man needs sustainment! Otherwise he moves _not_.)

Taichi Yagami’s a man on a mission, and nothing will distract him.

“Why in hell are you standing in the dark for?”

Taichi blinks at the sudden burst of light, now with Yamato appearing before him. His mouth dries for a second, but Yamato looks so unguarded with his confused frown that he thoughtlessly blurts:

“We need to talk.”

This, understandably, makes Yamato freeze on the spot.

“What.”

“Alright, some questions first,” Taichi keeps on going, taking a deep breath. “Are you involved with the yakuza and been trying to tell me?”

“What.”

“Are you planning to kill me?”

“At the risk of repeating myself: _what_ ,” Yamato shrills, throwing the keys to the counter and his bag on the floor. He swipes a hand through his hair while glaring. “Have you been watching serial-killer documentaries _again_? I swear if you—”

“Then, have you been flirting with me?”

The following silence is deafening.

Taichi preens. _Bingo._

“So that’s a yes.”

The speed in which Yamato’s skin blooms red is probably not good for his heath. And, even though he might not have considered murdering Taichi before, he sure looks like he’s about to now.

“I didn’t say shit,” he almost seethes, then strides past and inside in three large steps. “Get off my way.”

Typical Ishida. When in doubt, defense. The world makes sense again.

“You aren’t denying either, though,” Taichi answers, trailing after.

Yamato stops. From behind, Taichi sees the muscles of his back tense, the pull of his shoulders before turning to face him. Still, he holds the ground and doesn’t look away.

“So what,” Yamato says, voice strained. He swallows visibly. “What do you want me to say now? Congratulations for noticing the obvious? Want a feast as reward?”

“Come on!” Taichi huffs, temper raising at the sudden jab. “You damn well know I don’t do remotely subtle.”

“I haven’t been subtle, exactly!”

“No, you’ve just acted like a man possessed pulling and pushing all the time!” he yells back. “Acting like a coward who’s afraid to evolve!”

Taichi clasps his mouth shut. He probably shouldn’t have said that? The rapid flickering of Yamato’s eyes between anger and bewilderment is hard to miss. And fear. Lots of it. Yep. He most surely shouldn’t have said that.

As in cue, Yamato snarls.

“What the. Evolv—? I’m not even following, you—!” He stomps down, frustratedly clutching his hands over his head. “Sorry if I don’t don the crest of _recklessness_ and I was more worried about our _friendship_! Except now it’s all evidently in _shambles_!”

Oh, no. No, no, _no_. Not that! Letting Yamato spiral into his bouts of self-doubt never brought anything good. Last time there was a murder attempt, for goodness’ sake.

“Don’t you think,” Taichi says in the mildest pitch he can muster, “our friendship’s already affected if things came to this?”

Taichi stares meaningfully. Yamato can’t say a thing to that. They both know it. The way Yamato works the muscles of his jaw as well as his fingers at his side tells him so. He’s probably trying to search for an appropriate answer and failing utterly. Taichi feels his smirk widen. Sometimes, it feels good to be so incredibly right.

“Noted,” Yamato sniffs at last, eyes glossed over with not-yet-tears, “next time I’ll scream how much I want to fuck you from the top of Mt. Fu—”

“Maybe just ask me, you absolute idiot,” Taichi cuts in, trying for a more affable tone and leaning in with a expression he hopes conveys confidence. “You may be surprised by my answer!”

Now, _that_ makes him shut up for good.

The reaction’s instantaneous, too. Taichi’d have worried at the speed Yamato snaps his neck to look at him if he weren’t so proud of the fact that he just managed to drive Yamato Ishida to such a state of disbelief. The blush that has been taking over his cheeks over his anger now turns a deeper shade, the tell-tale sign of embarrassment showing up in the red of the tip of his ears, and much like a fish out of water, opens and closes his mouth searching for something to say only for there to be nothing.

Yamato looks downright delectable like that.

Taichi swells, pleased with himself. It _does_ feel good to be so right. _Real_ good.

“Okay, now that’s out of the way, why don’t we—"

“Uhm, Taichi?” Agumon pipes up behind him, sounding a touch afraid.

It’s only the wariness of his voice that makes Taichi turn around and not yell, “What is it?”

Agumon and Gabumon are huddled in the sofa, seated around a bowl of half-eaten popcorn (were... were they enjoying the fight? _Really?_ The nerve! _)_ but looking towards the window. Gabumon points a finger towards it, his brow darkly furrowed.

“Is that—Kuwagamon?” 

Yamato and he look at each other, then at their digimon.

The words don’t make sense at first. Then, when the disorientation dissipates, instinct steps in.

They scamper towards the window in a hurry, Yamato even tripping on the armchair. They push their faces against the glass. The darkness outside dampens their sight, so it takes them a moment, but it’s there, in the distance: a red blur flying across the Tokyo night sky. Huge, and roaring, and suspiciously beetle-shaped.

It’s, in fact, Kuwagamon.

“Son of a _bitch_ ,” Yamato whispers next to his ear.

Taichi wholeheartedly agrees.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Originally, Taichi was going to act fully oblivious but I thought that was terribly boring? So instead I ended with what we got here, which turned out to be more fun to write, specailly the Taichi seeking advice from Grabumon and Agumon. Also, this chapter felt like it went on *forever* and I feel it's in places a bit rough but I hope you enjoyed it anyway!
> 
> Any errors are from yours truly. And with any luck and if motivation keeps up I'll try to have the final chapter posted towards the end of next week before my vacation ends since I got most of it thought up already. *crosses fingers*
> 
> Thanks for the comments and the kudos! They keep me alive!


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Gentle reminder that the ‘creator chose to not use archive warnings’ is there for a reason and that in any save the world quest not everything goes well but nothing really explicit.

Kuwagamon appears before spring break and, as the non-official herald of Shit’s Going Down Suck It Up Kids, what follows is disgustingly predictable. Evil Digimon pop up everywhere! Humans seethe at their existence! Good digimon come to help! Fight, fight! BAM! The end of both worlds is imminent unless something’s done! We plead to you, oh, Chosen Ones!

Anyways.

They end up in the Digital World.

By this point it’s not even a surprise, and they deal with it like pros. Jou’s armed to the teeth with bandages, disinfectants, scalpels and other medical objects Taichi knows not the name of. He also has a book on different kind of ailments so thick they could use as weapon (seeing this, Tailmon snipes, “hypochondriac much?”). Koushiro brings his computers, the batteries, probably some pesky program that will save their lives in a pinch. The rest except for Mimi haul the camping equipment, the food, the basic survival kits—long gone are the days when they had to make do with what they wore and little else.

Mimi, meanwhile, brings nail polish, skin hydrant for everyone, an impressive assortment of Swiss knives for any situation and a gun.

“It’s not _real_ ,” she insists when the rest gape at her. “It’s a practice gun—it doesn’t even shoot bullets, just these plastic balls.”

“What would you want a gun for?” Koushiro asks, eying the thing warily.

Mimi levels him with a look that makes clear she thinks Koushiro’s being obnoxiously dumb.

“Self-defense.”

“Mimi,” Taichi intercedes, partly concerned and partly thrilled, “some digimon got nukes for tits.”

She sniffs authoritatively. “And now I got a gun.”

Taichi can’t argue with that, really.

“I just know something’s going to go terribly wrong and I’ll have to extract bullets from someone’s spleen,” Jou wails, face hidden behind his hands. Taichi grimaces. He can’t argue with that either. “I don’t even remember if I a brought the emergency surgery kit.”

“You did,” Gomamon comforts, patting his leg. “It’s in the main handbag next to the endoscope.”

Taichi mouths ‘endoscope?’ to Sora. She shakes her head, equally lost.

“And as I said,” Mimi cuts in, “they’re not _bullets_. Just tiny plastic balls.”

“Potentially harmful tiny plastic balls,” Patamon corrects happily.

“Yes,” Mimi grits, “which is the point.”

“And you all already get in the crossfire of our fights, so!” Palmon defends. “Having new means to protect yourself isn’t bad, is it?”

They all look at each other, hesitant.

“That’s true,” Yamato concedes eventually.

“Mimi,” Sora, voice of reason that she is, asks, “do you know how to use it?”

“Of course I do,” she says. “I went to a shooting range with daddy when we went to the USA.”

Sora looks at him. “Then…?”

Taichi shrugs. Not like he’s been particularly opposed to idea. In fact, if Mimi turns out to be right and the weapon does end up being a lifesaver, he’ll personally ask her to bring one for him for the inevitable next time and show him how to use it.

No. Scratch that. He might as well start now.

“I guess we can keep the gun around,” he proclaims. He watches as Mimi fist bumps with Palmon, and adds, “But just in case teach me to use it too.”

Mimi considers it for a moment and nods sagely. “Fair.”

All around them, there’s a unanimous collective flinch. He even sees Hikari sigh while rubbing her temples.

“Actually, can I join in too?” Takeru speaks up. Everyone turns to him questioning. He meekly blushes and says as way of explanation, “It sounds fun.”

Yamato groans. “Takeru, not you too.”

“Let the boy be,” Taichi waves him off. “He wants to learn to defend himself.”

Mimi, Takeru and their digimon chorus a ‘yeah!’ behind him.

“What you three want,” Yamato growls, “is to play around with the stupid thing.”

Jou, Sora and their digimon nod at that.

“True,” Taichi concedes, not yet put off, “but we’re getting something out of it and it isn’t getting in the way of anything. So stop being a nitpicker.”

“I’m not,” Yamato blurts out, offended.

“You are.”

“Sure. Okay. Stop being a thoughtless daredevil yourself,” he drawls, lightly punching his shoulder, “and maybe I wouldn’t worry as much.”

Taichi pouts. “Not.”

“Are.”

“Anyway,” Taichi presses on, rolling his shoulders to fend off the stress. “Should we head East? Better than just sitting around here, and Leomon seems to be that way, we could ask him what’s up.”

Yamto nods, hand massaging his nape. “That sounds fine, yeah.”

Taichi faces the rest, smiling. “Agreed then? Since it’s better to start—” He pauses, and scowls. “What?”

He’s met with 12 pairs of eyes blown wide, in different sates of grimacing and freaking out, head wiping from him to Yamato and back. Lost, he searches for Yamato’s help but he seems as baffled. With no other alternative, they both ground out another confused ‘what’.

“What was _that_?” Mimi squawks while Jou harrumphs, more articulated:

“You just got into and out of one of your clashes like it’s no big deal. That doesn’t usually happen unless…” He pauses, glaring between them. “What’s going on this time around? Some dispute you’re keeping from us?”

“Nothing much,” Taichi answers.

“Not a fight,” Yamato clarifies.

Everyone stares on. They look doubtful at best. Hikari clears her throat.

“So, it’s something,” she says.

“Kind of.”

“Sort of.”

The pained expression in everyone’s faces is hard to miss. Taichi rolls his eyes. They have never been _that_ bad to be welcomed with such obvious apprehension.

“Should we ask?” Koushiro tentatively prods.

“No,” they both answer in unison.

No one looks remotely convinced.

“It’s fine,” Gabumon reassures everyone. “They’re fine.”

“They’re on-hold,” Agumon adds helpfully. “Meaning they’ll postpone their fight for after saving everyone!”

“So it _is_ a fight,” Takeru puffs out.

“It’s not,” they both insist again.

Now, everyone looks even less convinced. Except for Sora. She slides her gaze from Taichi to Yamato contemplatively, and whatever she finds there makes her eyebrow rise in a silent, poignant question. From his periphery, Taichi can see Yamato slightly shake his head at her, the tips of his ears red. She smirks.

“O-kay,” Hikari breathes into the silence. “I hardly doubt you can hold onto tearing each other apart but if you say so.”

“So long it doesn’t escalate into an actual brawl,” Jou mutters, adjusting his glasses, “I’ll be glad.”

Taichi huffs, crossing his arms. “You say it like that’s a common occurrence still,” he says. “We’ve gotten better with the years, y’know.”

“Meh,” Mimi, Palmon and Tailmon remark, waggling their hands in a ‘so-so’ gesture.

Taichi sneers. He should start getting offended at this point.

“You have, actually,” Koushiro suddenly states, quietly tapping away in his laptop since long ago. He looks up at the silence and then blushes at the puzzled faces he receives. “I mean, objectively. I made spreadsheets confirming it.”

Taichi smiles at him, clasping on his back. “Thank you! Someone that believes in us!”

“Wait, what,” Yamato interrupts, frowning. “Spreadsheets?”

“Well, yes,” Koushiro coughs awkwardly. “It’s not for you two only, specifically; I inputted all the pertinent cases of discord among the whole group to analyze recurring behavioral patterns—”

“Japanese, please!” Mimi orders.

Koushiro’s sigh is long and suffering. “I wrote down the arguments we go through to see if anything could be done.”

“Koushiro-han made them chronologically ordered too!“ Tentomon adds.

Sora pinches her nose. “I don’t even know what to say to that.”

Piyomon flaps behind him. “Can we see them?”

They can. Everyone clusters around Koushiro’s laptop to witness the fifteen-page Excel document recompiling their lowest moments over the last nine years in a comprehensible manner. They’re categorically divided by topic, resolution, participants, time-length and other parameters Koushiro has come up with, and then marked from one to one-hundred based in the severity of the fight. Taichi notices, a bit embarrassed, that his name comes up more often than not (“I assume the leader position comes with great deal of problems attached to it,” Koushiro explains when Agumon points it out). He also notices that Yamato and his name come together more often than not too.

The silver lining, at least, is that their marks have been dropping at pace. Taichi can’t believe he’s happy from lowering a grade for once in his life.

“As you can observe, although the variation in frequency is minor,” Koushiro comments with a self-indulgent smile, “the gravity of our discussions are far less than what they were as a whole.”

“Damn, Koushiro,” Taichi breathes out. He chuckles at seeing the Thai vs. Japanese curry argument that spanned for a whole month being highlighted in yellow. Besides him, Takeru and Sora giggle over the memories of the spat about deciding what was the best sport that divided the whole group. He smiles. “I’m actually impressed.”

Yamato shifts next to him, shoulders bumping and eyes tracing the numbers on the screen with a thoughtful frown.

“I honestly don’t know how to feel about this,” he mumbles to no one in particular.

“As the evidence required for you to start arguing less now that you’ve stopped coming to blows over anything?” Hikari pointedly offers with a grin.

Taichi glances up at that, brows creased together, and can see Yamato mimic him. They look at each other. Then they look back at the group. They shrug, shaking their heads, and snort.

“Sounds boring,” Taichi says, mirth in his voice.

While Yamato says, similarly amused, “Sounds dreadful.”

. . .

In short: they decided to put off any discussion about where their relationship was headed in favor of saving the word and keeping the integrity of the group. Or, as Agumon puts it, they’re _on-hold._

Turns out, it’s not even that difficult a thing to do. Between the battles, the uncovering of the evil digimon that has decided to play King of the Hill, finding their hideout and the constant trudging across wild land, it leaves them with very little time for themselves. But, at times, there’s the undercurrent Taichi can just feel under his skin when they stand together, in the brush of their bodies, in the wordless conversation held through their gazes when they find each other across the camp. It’s in those instances that Taichi assures himself that what happened in their apartment wasn’t some vivid hallucination of his mind but rather real.

Sometimes, Taichi even catches Yamato staring. And Yamato doesn’t avoid his eyes anymore, in its place meeting them head on, only to, very deliberately, check him out until Taichi either blushes or bursts out laughing. It occurs to Taich the third time they’re caught by Gomamon with their little games that they’re, in fact, flirting. Knowingly, that is, without any pretense that there was nothing _more_. It marks a difference.

And if the rest occasionally shoot them meaningful stares when they sit to eat too close to each other… Well. They don’t act on them.

And if everyone also feigns ignorance about their conversations late into the night when they share watch, not unlike today, Taichi isn’t going to complain.

(They’re not hiding this well, are they?)

The campfire crackles, the quiet of the night shattered by the snores coming from the digimon and the rustle of leaves. They’re lucky for camping in some common-looking forest and not in, for example, a desert. Taichi’s never known the cold of a desert’s night until he came to the Digital World. Next to him, Yamato adds another log to the fire and settles back on their make-do wooden seats, face impassive and mind far away from there.

Taichi takes out a yen from his pocket and hands it over to Yamato.

“Penny for your thoughts?”

Yamato startles back to him, snorting once the offer registers. He takes the coin.

“Jou and Sora were wondering about whether this Chosen Children business will still affect us when we’re 70 and arthritic,” he says, rubbing his shoulders. “Was thinking how annoying that’d be.”

“Not much of Chosen _Children_ by then,” Taichi remarks.

“The Chosen Elderly?”

Taichi guffaws. “Sounds adequate.” He pauses, reconsidering the implications behind that. He shakes his head at the end, though. “Even if that’s the case we’ll need to do it anyway; not much of a choice being chosen.”

“I guess,” Yamato admits. “At least the idea that we all will be still in touch even as geriatrics is still a comfort.”

“I’m pretty sure that’s a given already. We won’t survive through all of this for nothing,” Taichi says with a smile. “Hope you’re ready to deal with us forever.”

Yamato hums in agreement, face smoothing out into a half-smile of his own. In the silence that follows, Taichi scoots over towards him—to ward off the cold, truly, no other reason. And if Yamato moves his hand just so to graze his, eyes intent and ears red in a clear question hanging between the two, that’s just a coincidence.

Taichi scoffs, turning his hand upwards in clear invitation.

It doesn’t take much else for Yamato to grip it, fingers interweaving tight between his. The heat is a welcome respite, and the clear mien of wonder swimming in Yamato’s face is as welcome too.

 _Look who’s so brave now_ , Taichi thinks entertained.

“You’re aware I didn’t say no,” he utters playfully, “right?”

Yamato sniffs scathingly. “I thought we were, what was it, on-hold.”

“Ass.” He bumps into him. “Just making sure you aren’t going through some internal breakdown and blow up on me at the last minute.”

“You’re a moron,” he says, but his tone’s so strangely soft it’s hard to take offense. “Yeah, you made it rather obvious at the end there.”

Taichi twists towards him brusquely, glaring. “I was obvious all along!”

“Were you? _Were you_?” Yamato voices accusatively, leaning his face so close they’re a breath away from each other’s. “Imagine coming back from a long, tiring day to find the guy you like waiting in the entrance, expression serious, and the first thing he says is ‘we need to talk’.”

“That’s not—”

“And he follows it with ‘do you wanna murder me’, followed by ‘do you like me’ in quick succession and then says nothing.”

“I wanted your answer—”

“And _then_ , he keeps kind of gloating about it?” Yamato drawls. “Obnoxiously so at that, while you’re rather visibly distressed.”

“I wasn’t _gloating_ ,” Taichi stresses. He thinks back on the memory, the way he’s preened and acted like Yamato was a cat about to swipe at him, and bits his tongue. “Alright, maybe a bit,” he admits, and when meet with Yamato’s unamused look, chortles clumsily. “I didn’t approach you the best way, did I?”

Yamato squeezes his hand, sighing. “I’m sorry too,” he says reticently. “For pussyfooting about ‘evolving’, whatever you meant by that.”

“Shut it,” Taichi laughs.

He pulls from their united hands until Yamato stumbles against him and almost into his lap. Taichi grins as Yamato’s scowl is turned ineffective due to the barest hint of red. In retaliation, Yamato claws his nails on him, leaving behind crescent marks in his palm.

“What a mess,” Yamato says, humor evident as Taichi’s flinches in pain. “Jou might be right when thinking this is either the best or worst thing to happen with no alternatives.”

Taichi startles. “He knows?”

“Sora kept needling me and Jou caught on.” Yamato shrugs.

“The gossip mill. Shoulda see that coming,” Taichi tsks. “That explains Mimi and Takeru dropping all those weird questions on me.”

“I’m not going to ask,” Yamato deadpans.

“Your loss.”

Yamato chuckles. He disentangles their hands to throw another bloke of wood into the fire, but as quickly as he finishes his fingers find their way back into their previous position, cozy and natural between his. Taichi witnesses all this take place with a raised brow. Yamato follows his gaze, only to end up with pursed mouth and turning away. Taichi shakes his head in disbelief, although he holds onto the touch tighter, closer. Why would he do otherwise, after all. (Taichi kind of wants to kiss him next, the warmth and the closeness not helping, and for the first time he curses all their oaths proclaiming saving the world takes precedence.)

Yamato clears his throat and side-eyes him while saying, “You better make good in your promise.”

Taichi huffs, scrapping against Yamato’s knuckles with his thumb.

“What do you take me for?” Taichi says and quickly adds when seeing Yamato’s eyebrows disappear under his bangs, “Don’t answer that. I promise you again that I’ll make good of my word any setback from world saving notwithstanding.”

“Don’t joke around about it,” he says, halfway between stern and pleased. “It’s not funny.”

“It sort of is.”

Yamato’s hard-heartedness would be more effective if his lips didn’t tremble at the effort from trying not to smile.

“You better not forget,” he repeats.

Taichi puffs, tugging on their hands.

“Oh, please, I won’t forget.”

This turns out to be a lie.

To be fair, he can’t think about much of anything when they’re fighting a Lucemon so big even Omegamon dwarfs in comparison. In the heat of the battle, he’s more concerned about the screaming and the wounds and ordering everyone into position until his voice becomes raw due to overuse. It’s hectic, and frightening, and all Taichi can think of is ‘not die, not die, not die’.

From the sides, he sees the rest doing their best protecting Koushiro who’s frantically typing into his computer—their last ace under the sleeve. After everything else has failed, their last hope consists on injecting a miserable virus into the enemy in the hopes of weakening him, their only chance for victory. It’s a pathetic plan, but it’s all they got, and so Taichi soldiers on while Yamato stands behind him, their digidevices glowing at such potency it might blind them.

The ground beneath shakes. The sea beyond the small cliff they stand on is engulfed by the storm. Omegamon slashes the sword against Lucemon’s abdomen; they parry—the strength of their clash throws them back closer to the cliff's edge. Still, they can’t give up. Not now; not ever. They watch, hopefully, as Lucemon’s movements slow down bit by bit by bit. The virus is doing its job. But it’s not enough (when it is?). They all scream when Lucemon manages a kick that sends Omegamon tumbling back, then charges a last spell to end it all and Taichi is cursing, teeth clenching so hard his jaw hurts, the grasp on Yamato’s hand the last thing he will hold onto at the end of everything. It hits him then that this could be their end, finally, how could it be, where did he fail, and he feels like crying, tears threatening to spill and then—

Mimi takes aim and her shoot holds true. It lands square on Lucemon’s eye.

Yamato gasps. Taichi does a double take.

What. (What.)

It’s enough, though. However pitiful the distraction, it gives them the one second Omegamon needs to dodge and then to shoot his own canon point-blank.

Lucemon’s end is meet with incredulous silence.

It’s all in all rather anticlimactic, but Taichi doesn’t care. His laughter is laden with a bit of mania, and the way he pulls Yamato into a spur-of-the moment kiss might not have been really thought out, but Taichi doesn’t care about that either. Nor do the rest, seeing as they all erupt into victory screams themselves. They’re alive, and they’ve won, and now they could return back home and celebrate to their heart’s content.

In their elation, they don’t notice the groan of the cliff under his feet, the way the ground gives in, and he slips away down and down and down.

He notes, confused, how Yamato gets smaller by the moment.

It occurs to him, belatedly, that he’s falling.

In the last moments before the waters take him, Taichi doesn’t think about much else other than: _I can’t believe Mimi’s fucking gun saved us._

. . .

Yamato watches, in slow motion, Taichi disappear under the water. There’s a maddening instant where his body seizes up as Taichi's eviscerated from him and into down below. The shadow presence of a handhold that has saved the world multiple times is still warm on him, even the tingle on his lips —so terribly reminiscent of a month ago in their apartment— leaves him wanting, and it doesn’t help him register that, no, Taichi isn’t beside him where he should be. He watches, and does nothing.

Next, there’s a shuddering breath, so deep and long he doesn’t think his lungs could contain it, and before he knows he steps forward and follows right behind.

The crash against water pulls on every single muscle of his being, the surface tension almost impossible to bear. He manages to not lose consciousness, somehow, the fried ends of his nerves pushing him through the pain. So he swims, and swims, and swims until he sees the floating body that is Taichi.

 _You bastard,_ he wants to yell as he grabs on him, _I’m going to murder you._

But he can’t. Taichi’s passed out. In its place Yamato grits his teeth and attempts to shoulder them up to the surface.

“I promise you to give an answer once we’re done with this,” Taichi’s said cheekily when they were readying to go back to the Digital World. Their unfinished conversation has hung over them for long by then, and this was the first time Taichi brought it up after they decided to put it off for when they’re not in survival mode. “Let’s see if you can wait until then.”

Yamato’s never wanted to break his nose as much as he did at that moment.

But Taichi’s pulled him by the arm and smacked the hastiest and most sloppy kiss he’s ever had just on the corner of his mouth, and any thought flew away from his mind. Asshole that he is, Taichi took off of their apartment laughing just after, leaving him behind puzzled and infuriatingly frustrated.

And terribly, frighteningly happy, too.

He’s thought, back then, that such degree of happiness couldn’t be confined in such small vessel. He’s thought that such thoughtless, swift action couldn’t, shouldn’t grab him by his own very soul. He had and it had, though, to the point it made his chest swell and pull his mouth into a starstruck smile, and through the wild beat of his own heart Yamato had hoped hopelessly that, perhaps, they could make through anything as long as they were together.

Except now they’re going to drown, miserable and wretched as they suffer a dog’s death. Not even the hope of what-could-be prevents his lungs from collapsing, and his limbs futilely paddle against the currents only to end up failing.

When the water begins to get into his body, the salt heavy on his tongue and every orifice clogged, Yamato wishes—desperately, fervently. He wishes he’d acted earlier, that he’d not doubted so much so, that he’d trusted more and worried less.

He wishes, mostly, that he could share another day with Taichi.

But he can’t. Not today, not tomorrow, not anymore; and his body gives out.

And then Vikemon appears.

. . .

Taichi Yagami dies at the tender age of twenty.

Technically, anyhow.

They’ll tell him, later, how he had come out from the sea not breathing; how they’ve panicked before Jou had taken matters into his own hands; how, in spite of that, his heart had stopped beating for a total of ten seconds. They’ll tell him all of this while trying too hard to sound cheerful while his sister grips onto him tightly.

In the present, he wakes up to someone’s mouth on his, air being pushed in while water wants to come out. His chest hurts and his throat hurts and his head hurts —everything does— and the only reason he doesn’t choke on his own spite is because gentle hands turn his head to the side. He throws up right there, body convulsing as he tries to grasp for air in-between bouts of retches. He hears people around muffled behind the roar of his ears.

When it ends—when he can breathe once more—, what’s left is the dull unrelenting pain all over and piercing ache in his left side. Still addle-brained, Taochi attempts to check out the harm only for someone else stops him.

“Don’t,” the male voice kneeling over him says, “I think your ribs are bruised.”

“Shit…” Taichi rasps to find his throat weirdly dry. “Jou?”

“You gave us a scare there,” he says, handing him a waterskin. “Don’t move much until I inspect the damage better.”

Jou helps him sit up and as the haze of his vision clears, he finds the rest of their group circling him—scared, awed, standing in spite of it. He doesn’t process what’s going on until he finds himself with two armfuls in the shape of Hikari and Agumon, latching on him for dear life.

Taichi bends under their weight and realizes he’s very much alive.

“I said not to move him much! I’m the doctor here,” Jou shouts, taking out a stethoscope from his bag. “Listen to what I say!”

“S’fine,” Taichi says, welcoming the heat and solidity. He regrets it the moment Agumon sinks his claw around his abdomen and grunts. “Mostly fine,” he amends, moving Agumon away to throw an arm that feels like jelly around him. “Just… don’t touch me shoulders down.”

“Don’t ever do that again,” Hikari whispers into his neck, eyes teary, crushing him into the hug as punishment. “I was worried.”

“Okay,” Taichi manages to say despite the itch in his throat. “I’ll try not to.”

Jou shoos them away so he can begin working. Everyone heaves a sigh next, their posture crumbling down in relief. Through the muddled state of his senses, Taichi sees none of them are worse for wear and his own body gives out under Jou’s care.

Although, he notices, Yamato’s strangely drenched to the bone, eyes raking him up and down with lips pressed thin and the worry lines around the eyes causing him to look older. Taichi has the inkling that if it weren’t for Takeru fussing over him, towel dropped over his head and furiously scrubbing him, Yamato’d have approached him long ago. The thought lights him up.

“Thanks, I take it?” he says, pointing at his wet state.

Yamato shakes his head. “Gomamon.”

“You’re welcome by the way!” the digimon greets, flapping a fin.

“He jumped after you like an idiot,” Takeru says, the slightest hint of anger seeping out. He rubs his brother’s hair hard enough for Yamato to complain. “Vikemon had to save you both.”

Taichi tries to laugh but finds it hurts too much. Talking as a whole does, truth be told. Jou glowers at him, ordering once more to stop moving.

“That’s how he shows he cares.”

Yamato glares. He extends one hand to tweak his ear until it draws a whine, then lowers it to his shoulder and squeezes. After that, it continues its route down, through his bicep, elbow and forearm, the touch feather-light and consistent, until it reaches his palm. Slowly, fingertips draw their course through the skin there, pressing tiny points of warm across cold skin, before they lodge in the space between Taichi’s own fingers and tightly clamp on them, secure and solid and there. It’s a grounding feeling, steady and strong and familiar. Through the connection he can sense Yamato relax.

Taichi exhales a sigh and squeezes back. The gesture’s so intimate Taichi’s pretty sure they’d have never done this in front of an audience but that’s beyond the point now. (He doesn’t care. He’s alive.

They all are.)

“I’m regretting that decision more every day,” Yamato says without any heat.

Taichi nods. That’s good. It means Yamato’s more than good. “So everyone okay?”

“Except you,” Sora says, tiredly sitting down next to him, “everyone’s fine.”

“I’m fine, though,” he mumbles, head lolling to the side before straightening it. He frowns. “Did we win?”

“We did,” Koushiro answers with another sigh.

“Oh, nice,” Taichi intones. He blinks owlishly. A bit hard to think through the mess that is his mind. He kind of feels like vomiting again. Then he finds Mimi worriedly staring at him. “Mimi?”

She jolts, staggered at being called. “Yes?”

“Can you get more of those toy guns?” he says, coughing. “I want everyone with one.”

The subsequent silence reverberates across the group. Taichi doesn’t get why. It’s a good idea after what happened. He’s even ready to defend himself when a dizzy spell hits him. Before he can process it, he’s doubled over throwing up the last of the saltwater from his lung onto the ground. Through the sound of his own gagging, he hears Yamato moan:

“I’m in love with a bloody _idiot_.”

. . .

They reach home that same day.

After leaving their digimon back in their world for cleanup, they beeline to the nearest hospital for a checkup. The doctors there are surprised at their state, questioning them in all the ways they can’t properly answer, and so Jou’s left to take charge in updating them. It’s not until midnight that they’re discharged, exhausted and wary, and they part ways with quiet goodbyes and promises to see each other next day come.

Yamato practically has to haul him across deserted streets to their empty apartment. He’s threateningly silent all the way, has been since they began packing up after their victory to be fair, and Taichi has the premonition there’s an argument in the horizon.

“Stop being angry at me,” Taichi tells him when he’s unceremoniously dropped on the couch. Might as well get it over with. “Or at least tell me why you’re angry.”

Yamato grimaces, hovering over him not a step too far but neither a step too close. Taichi waits as Yamato crosses his arms, uncrosses them. He stares at him with the edges of trepidation slanting his brow into a frown.

“I’m not angry,” he says at last.

Taichi rolls his eyes. “Sure.”

“Fine. I’m not angry _at you_ if that’s what’s worrying you.” Taichi gawps. Uh. That’s new. “It’s just… I’m tired and that was as close as we’ve gotten from losing.”

“You say like it’s not the first time,” Taichi groans, leaning against the couch pillows.

Yamato snarls, “Not the point.”

“Oh, shut up,” Taichi fires back, pointing at the bandages zig-zagging his abdomen. “You aren’t the one looking like a mummy.”

“Taichi.”

“I’m sorry, okay?” he says when Yamato looks about to yell. “But I don’t want to dwell on that, so let’s drop it? I’m alive, you’re alive. I don’t care for anything else right now.”

“Taichi.”

“What?!”

Yamato lunges at him, hands clawing onto his shoulders as he crashes their mouth together in harsh yet fluid motion. Taichi never imagined that his first _real_ kiss with Yamato would be riff with such clear feelings of frustration behind it. Not that he ever thought it’d be either sweet or gentle—they’re too much of powerhouses for that—, but the incessant push that verges on desperation makes it hard to focus on anything but that. Their teeth clink, lips devouring as Yamato straddles him. Taichi, not wanting to be left behind, circles his tongue against Yamato’s in a clear request, and the next thing he knows is their fight against dominance swallows them whole, aflame, all-encompassing, the impetus of wanting, claiming more until they have laid the other to waste.

Their breaths are ragged for the split second they part only to meet in the middle again, even more furious, even more demanding. Yamato pulls from his hair, bringing him closer, firmer, and Taichi circles his waist down to his in a grind that leaves them panting. Yamato chuckles darkly, bites down hard on his lower lip until it draws a moan from him. Taichi hopes he does it again.

But then Yamato shifts above him, arms getting in their way. The bolt of pain strikes him from head to toes making Taichi grunt (and not in the way he wants).

“Wait. Shit,” he chokes, pushing Yamato away. “Ribs.”

It takes Yamato a while to come back from his high, but he stands up quickly, swallowing down on his embarrassment.

“I’ll get ice,” he says in a hurry, heading to the kitchen.

Later, as they sit side by side, Taichi hums content under the numbing cold of the icepack Yamato presses against his side. Pliant and senses still flaring after the makeout, Taichi takes the chances to nuzzle against Yamato’s neck who, against his preconceptions, merely allows him to by freely presenting his throat to him.

“I’m glad you’re here,” Taichi exhales into the one bruising kiss he plants in the curve of his neck.

“So am I.” Yamato scoots closer. “But you ever pull anything like that again,” he warns, pinching his cheek between his index and thumb, “I’m murdering you myself.”

“You already said that,” Taichi snickers under his breath, grabbing the hand away from his abused cheeks. “Five times. I’ve been counting.”

He brings Yamato’s hand to his mouth, lightly bruising the knuckles there. Under Yamato’s dilated pupils, he flips it over to show the wrist, pale and unmarked. Taichi sweeps his lip across Yamato’s pulse point, and under it feels the strong, rapid beat that throbs in rhythm with his own.

“Hey,” he says, mouth still hovering over Yamato’s palm. He locks eyes with Yamato, unwavering, the heat palpable. “I love you too. That’s my answer, as promised.”

Yamato’s laughter is freeing and light and unequivocally joyful. The face-splitting smile that takes over him makes crinkles form around his eyes, causing the blue to stand out.

“I figured,” he says softly, squeezing back.

“What, no witty remark?” Taichi asks, pulling back. “No complaints?”

Yamato cocks his head to the side. “About?”

“I don’t know, something like,”—he clears his throat, trying to mimic the pitch of Yamato’s voice and failing— “‘but, _Taichi_ , this will change _everything_! Let me sulk on it for one to six months more, Taichi!’ or similar stuff.”

Yamato doesn’t even have to try for payback. He simply squashes the icepack to his left side and Taichi hisses.

“Can’t. You almost died. I also almost died,” he answers, voice barely above whisper, the wonder of moments ago replaced by the haunting presence of their almost demises. “It does wonders to put things into perspective. I don’t want to wait anymore.”

Taichi swallows. He blinks. He feels more that sees Yamato grab his face and push their bodies flush, although mindful of his wounds. His attention is enraptured by the caress Yamato bestows, the way in which he follows him down, and the way his mouth curls into an impish smile that is wondrous and delicious and everything Taichi ever imagined and then some. Absentmindedly, he discovers his own hands have long betrayed him and moved to grip onto Yamato’s hip.

Yeah, Taichi thinks, letting himself fall to the couch, he doesn’t feel like waiting either.

“Damn, I was rearing for another fight, too,” he tries to joke but it falls flat. He gulps, and asks, “So, together?”

“Together,” Yamato affirms. He leans in, lips then tongue pressing against his, savoring the moment in slow, steady strokes not unlike drinking wine from a golden cup. Yamato retracts, obtaining a frustrated growl from Taichi, and grins. “Again?” he asks, fingertips already tracing the visible bits of skin on his waist.

Taichi shudders. The silly smile crossing his face is almost painful. He pulls Yamato down to him.

“I got the whole night ahead,” Taichi beckons, throwing the icepack to the side. “Do your worst.”

And so Yamato does.

fin.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, things to say. First of all: I don’t condone the use of firearms, but if you’re facing building-height monsters with machineguns for arms I say it’s only fair. Second: Could I have taken Taichi’s almost dead more seriously? Yes. Did I want to? Nah. Black humor where it’s at. No regrets. Also, the ending came out of nowhere? I had something else planned but Taichi and Yamato didn't want to go that way so I let myself be guided by them which. Weird. And frustrating because it's rather noticeable. Whatever. Third: It’s been an *absolute* pleasure bringing this fic out there it! And I mean it, seeing as I was able to shit out 15000+ words in the span of two weeks! As someone prone to some terrible procrastination, I’m pretty proud of this achievement. But I'm also incredibly tired. And now I'm freeeeeeeeee.
> 
> As always, any mistakes you may find are from yours truly! And I hope you all enjoyed reading this silly fic as much as I enjoyed writing it.


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